For Want of a Friend
by elsa3beth
Summary: bookverse-Commodore Hornblower  What if Hornblower hadn't discovered Braun's treachery until too late? He takes a bullet for the Tsar and yearns for Bush . . . plotless H/C, cameos by Mound, Hurst, Wychwood, and others


**Title:** For Want of a Friend

**Rating:** PG13

**Pairing:** Hornblower/Bush friendship

**Length:** 6500 words

**Era:** Bookverse, Commodore Hornblower

**Summary:** What if Hornblower hadn't discovered Braun's treachery until too late? He takes a bullet for the Tsar and yearns for Bush . . . really just a bunch of plotless H/C that I'd originally thought of turning into a longer story but decided not to :).

It came to Hornblower with the suddenness of a blow as the grand polished doors of Tauride Hall swung inward. Braun had stolen his gun. Braun the displaced Finn, had stolen his gun. Stolen his gun to attend a royal dinner with Prince of Sweden and the Imperial Tsar of Russia.

It was too late for Hornblower to run up the stairs and stop the man. It was too late for him to do much of anything, for here was the Tsar entering now beside his wife, resplendent in his light blue, gold epauletted uniform. Hornblower acted on instinct. His mind had failed him that night, but perhaps his body would not. He leapt to his feet and sprinted across the room, pushing past the silver breasted guards and colliding with the Tsar at the same moment a sharp retort issued from the upper gallery. Hornblower felt a fiery brand bite into his left shoulder as he fell toward the ground, the Tsar beneath him. It seemed that not even a second passed before he was pulled violently away from His Royal Highness, and then Hornblower was really on the floor, his body protesting the impact. He sensed rather saw the group of guards surrounding him, for his eyes were having momentary difficulty focusing. He only just managed to collect his wits before he was hauled to his feet by those same pink and silver girdled soldiers and dragged to a more isolated corner of the great room. No one had yet asked him any questions, and Hornblower knew that to be a bad sign. His shoulder began to ache.

A more appreciable period of time passed before he was moved again. He was more cognizant of the passing time now, for the painful pulsing in his arm and the blood moving down his sleeve made him peculiarly aware of every moment. As he rose light headed to his feet and began to walk in the direction indicated, Hornblower ignored the bayonet he sensed was pointed at his back in favor of clapping his right hand against his left shoulder. He knew he'd been shot the moment his body hit the floor, but it wasn't until he'd been confined to that corner that it had started to bleed significantly. And now it bled profusely, leeching through his shirt and coat to drip down his arm. The pain had come then, too, as if the sight of his own blood had triggered some primal response in his mind. It was all he could do now to remain standing, clutching his arm helplessly and clenching his jaw in anguish.

He was marched out of the banquet hall and down a rear corridor that seemed positively endless. The marble statues and rococo balustrades lining the walls seemed now garish to Hornblower, and it was firmly in his mind that naval officers had never belonged in palaces. He was relieved when they stopped at the sixth door, for even if it was a cell he imagined he would at least be able to lay down. And it was not, as it turned out, a cell, though it apparently functioned as one. The folding doors opened into what Hornblower would have called a sitting room, with an opulent rug, garish side tables, satin chairs, and large gold framed artwork as befitted a palace. And it was not empty. Even as the double doors were pulled outward in opening, Hornblower's eyes picked out the dark blue uniforms of the Royal Navy. He was pushed forward by the uncomfortable prodding of another bayonet, and he forced himself to lift his feet as walk into the room to counteract the sluggishness of his movements. Hurst was seated in the only chair facing the door, Somers lingering nervously by his side. Colonel Wychwood and Mound, in contrast, were standing impatiently behind the chair, and Mound looked to have been pacing by the twitching in his legs. Their attention was uniformly fixed on the doorway when Hornblower entered, allowing him to fully appreciate their expressions. They were varying degrees of anxious-Mound perhaps a touch more worried and Hurst a touch more impatient.

Hornblower took no gratification from their anxiety; it could be on his behalf, but more likely it was merely for the situation they found themselves in. He had no time to spare for their concern in any case. He felt most unsteady on his feet, and as soon as he was forced into the room he made a straight line for the nearest chair, which was across from Hurst. Only once seated did his mind belatedly register the question Hurst had voiced upon spotting him.

"What has happened, sir?"

And by the time his mind had processed that inquiry, another had been voiced by Mound: "Are you alright, sir?"

"I told you he'd been shot, damn you!" That was Wychwood. Hornblower was beginning to comprehend that in the confusion of Braun's attack, his officers must not have seen the full events. Apparently had not even seen him shot, or perhaps had not correlated the gun shot with his mad dive across the hall. Wychwood, being closer and more accustomed to musket and pistol fire, had at least guessed what had happened if he had not seen it with his own eyes.

But he had no time for explanations. The fire in his arm and was rapidly consuming all his thoughts. His jacket felt tight across his shoulders, and he wanted to undo his stock so he could breath easier . . . yet he could do nothing without releasing his hold on his left arm.

"Someone help me out of this damn jacket." He ordered, his voice harsh in the expectant silence. Wychwood had stepped toward Hornblower even as he remanded Mound, and so he was pulling off Hornblower's neck stock almost before Hornblower could finish his order. Somers was quickly by his side, no doubt very aware of his inferior rank-as the lowest officer present any menial tasks should fall to him. In but a minute they had his jacket unbuttoned and were carefully tugging if off of his shoulders. Hornblower was forced to release his arm as they did so, and he could not restrain a gasp as they pulled the coat off his wounded arm, gentle as they tried to be.

Hurst, unable to stomach the helplessness of their situation, stood and went to the door. Hornblower heard him knocking, and when his hailing was answered he asked for a doctor. Hurst had to repeat his request several times, asking for everything from an apothecary to a surgeon to a medicine before he was understood, and even then it seemed his demand was ignored, for Hornblower heard the door slam shut and Hurst curse.

In the time the exchange lasted, Somers had ripped open Hornblower's sleeve and begun wiping away the blood as best he could under Wychwood's watchful eye. It was an exercise in futility.

"He's bleeding too much. The bullet must have nicked the artery." Wychwood judged.

"What do we do, sir?" Somers asked helplessly.

"Bandage it up tight, and pray God they send a surgeon."

Hornblower was cognizant of this conversation occurring above him, but as he had nothing to contribute, and no wish to encourage further conversation on the topic of his declining condition, he said nothing. Somers took Wychwood's statement as an order, however, and managed to tie Hornblower's stock into a tight bandage around his arm. The fat midshipman was stripping now, no doubt with the thought of crafting his shirt into a sling or better bandage for his Commodore. Hornblower was dizzy and sweating, and he could not seem to slow his breathing. Wychwood was frowning at him, his small, prickly eyes no doubt observing and cataloging these exact symptoms.

To distract himself from his significant discomfort and to distract the others from their assessment of _him_, Hornblower forced himself to speak. "What happened to Braun?" It was the only question that could break through his other preoccupations.

Mound, hovering anxiously behind Wychwood, jumped to respond, "They took him away, sir, just before they took _us_ away. We don't know where to, sir."

"Hmm," Hornblower grunted, "Well if they don't shoot him, I'll have him hung from the yardarm!"

"I should say so," Wychwood seconded.

There was a heavy silence following this exchange, and Hornblower felt the weight of his officers' curiosity and anxiety as a palpable thing. Hurst looked to bursting by the pressure of containing his questions, and even Mound, with his hands straying to his pockets, was clearly restless. When the silence grew so long that Hornblower again feared the conversation might venture into to probing questions regarding his health and comfort, he was impelled once more to speak. This time he took pity and used his weakening breath to elucidate the events that had led them all there.

"Braun was a Finn," He said into the silence, seemingly to no purpose. "A Finn, not a Swede." He had to stop to take in air. "The Tsar's invasion of Finland made him a refugee, and he apparently thought tonight would be a prime opportunity to take revenge." Again he was forced to pause, gasping sweet air. He considered adding that events had come as far as they did only because he had been unable to solve the puzzle of his pistol in sufficient time; but the indignity of his wounded state made him all the more conscious of the blow to his image such an admission would cost. Those three short phrases in any case felt like quite a speech to Hornblower, given his well known tendency to keep his own council, and given his current difficulty in taking in adequate air.

He could see by the expression on Hurst's face that to the others it was hardly sufficient, and that brought him some satisfaction. Likely the question that plagued his mind was _how_ Hornblower had guessed Braun's intent, and Hornblower was still too angry at the misuse of his pistol and his own failings to feel charitable with that information. Hurst could not complain, or even press for further answers, without earning Hornblower's ire, and that gave Hornblower further pleasure.

It was Wychwood who finally continued the conversation, as was appropriate given that he was closest to Hornblower in rank. He too seemed to do it for the benefit of the younger officers, "If his Royal Highness was certain of our complicity in this affair, he would not wait in seeing us executed, or his Foreign Minister would not, I dare say. I suspect they will want to interview us, in which case there's no need fretting now."

"No need fretting?" Mound protested. "The Commodore's been _shot_, damn it!"

"Yes. And what do you propose to do about it?"

Mound pinched his mouth in frustrated anger. He stood, hands clenched for a full minute, then marched to the door and began banging on it. Following in Hurst's footsteps, he shouted every word for 'doctor' that he could think of-a good many of them imaginary. As before, the door was shut in his face. The indignation that suffused Mound's entire posture at this rejection was startlingly familiar. In his mind's eye Hornblower saw Bush. Bush in the rear cabin of the _Hotspur_, swelling with wounded pride on behalf of his captain after reading the Naval Gazette and finding no mention of a 5lb shell quickly extinguished. He saw Bush, offering him money on the streets of London, unable to stomach the thought of a great man like Hornblower destitute. He saw Bush, tensely resentful on the deck of the Lydia as El Supremo toured their deck with arrogant entitlement. He saw Bush, just that morning, cursing the Russians for their rudeness while Hornblower stood in full dress on the deck of the _Nonsuch_.

Hornblower saw Bush when he looked at Mound, and he felt such a deep longing for his friend that he was nearly consumed by it. He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat. He understood, in that moment, what had driven Bush to reach for Hornblower's hand in that carriage in France, and he cursed the belated enlightenment. For Bush was not here, could not be here, and Hornblower knew his hand was to be vacant.

The room fell into silence.

Twenty long minutes passed, according to Hornblower's watch, when a noise at the door caught the room's undivided attention. A man was being let in. He was older—with graying hair at his temples and a bald spot almost as prominent as his paunch. He wore brown trousers and a brown vest over a white shirt, all of good, but not fine, quality. Most significantly to them all, he carried with him a large leather bag—a surgeon's bag.

"I am Peter Michelburg, Royal Surgeon," He said in heavily accented French, "Where is the wounded?"

Hornblower, not facing the door, had been forced to gaze at the visitor through the corner of his eyes. Now he made himself speak in that same language, his voice hoarse with pained fatigue, "Here, Monsieur. I have been shot in the shoulder."

The doctor was quick to undo Somers' bandage, and Hornblower was treated to the sight of the ragged hole in his shoulder, still oozing blood. The sight robbed him of what little breath he had and he controlled the urge to gag. He looked away. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, the doctor began prodding the area, and Hornblower sucked in a breath sharply, only to gasp it out in a pained cry. The prodding stopped, but Hornblower was too short of air to vent his anger.

That was probably as well, for the doctor rapidly explained himself. "The bullet must be lodged by the bone. You are very lucky, Monsieur, that it did not shatter your humerus. It is probably sitting atop a nerve, which is why it gives you so much pain. And by the amount of blood, I think it has nicked a vein."

Hornblower focused his mind on this new information, latching on to the one piece of good news in the diagnosis. "A vein, you say? Not an artery? Blue blood, not red?" He repeated himself to be sure that his poor translation was correct.

"Oui, Monsieur. A vein. The bullet shall have to be removed for the vein to heal. And, too, there is always the chance of infection if it stays. I wish that they had fetched me sooner, but the soldiers . . ." He dissolved in to what sounded like Russian imprecations to Hornblower's ears.

"Very well," Hornblower responded, suddenly impatient, "Remove it then."

"Oui, Oui." The doctor agreed.

"What do you need us to do, Sir Horatio?" Wychwood had been solicitously following the conversation with his limited French, and correctly judged the moment to intervene. He did so in English, however, which Hornblower thought was just as well, for the Colonel's French was rather dreadful. He saw the doctor pulling out his equipment with nauseating nonchalance: a pair of long tongs, a small knife, sewing materials, a tourniquet . . . they were positioned in a line atop a rag the surgeon supplied from his bag.

"Get them to move you to the rug, Monsieur. I must fetch some water." So saying, the surgeon rose from the floor and went to the door. Hornblower heard him mumbling in Russian to the men on the other side.

"I must be moved to the floor," Hornblower ordered, and to avoid any delay, he organized the maneuver, "Somers, you will kindly take hold of my legs. Mound, Mr. Hurst, if you will please lift my shoulders." There was no question of him lowering himself to the ground. He felt too weak to even attempt it.

The surgeon was back, bucket of water in hand, just after the repositioning was completed. He wasted no time. "Have the boy," he gestured to Somers, "use the rag in this bucket to keep the wound clean while I work. The bullet I will have to find by feel, but when I'm stitching I must to be able to see." He waited while Hornblower relayed this order. Somers nodded confidently, and Hornblower was increasingly gratified by the young man's competence. He would have to tell Bush of it. If only Bush were here.

The doctor was speaking again. "The others will need to hold you down. Firmly. It will be worse if you move. Do you want laudanum? Spirits?" The thought of rum in his already nauseous state was more than unpalatable. Laudanum . . . visions of a drugged Captain Sawyer vied with his fear of disgracing himself with his screams. He'd seen too many wounded and dying men not to hear the undignified wails in his mind's eye . . .

"Some laudanum." He requested. And to his officers, "Mound, Hurst. You will hold me down. Do not allow me to move during the operation."

The doctor put a spoon to his mouth, and he forced himself to swallow the thick liquid offered. Mound moved to his right side, to press down on his legs and side, and he felt hands, Hurst's hands, on either side of his neck. He saw the dreaded tongs in the surgeon's hands, and a worrisome thought occurred to him.

"Colonel Wychwood."

"Sir?"

"Should I lose consciousness, you must endeavor to wake me as soon as there is a change in our situation. If someone comes to question us, I must not be allowed to sleep."

"I understand, sir."

The doctor had paused at this speech, but waited no longer.

There was a prod at his arm, as if to verify the bullet's trajectory, and then a stabbing pain shot through Hornblower's entire limb—shoulder to fingers-and on down his torso. He writhed in agony, and could not contain a cry of protest. And yet the pain did not stop. It amplified until his arm felt as if it must surely be on fire, his every nerve spasming in a paroxysm of torment. He screamed again, and then locked his jaw in the hope that he could trap his shrieks within the confines of his mouth. He could not know that the muted sounds that resulted were far more appalling to his audience than the cries. He twisted in their grasp, mind stupefied by the torture those tongs effected.

Then, suddenly, there was relief. A brief reprieve from his dark horror. He vaguely heard the surgeon speaking above him. Something about the bullet being split, or his clothing being split—some justification for further probing. All he knew was that the break was fleeting. For then the fire exploded in his shoulder again, and he was roaring once more in agony. He wished Bush was there, with his steady hand, to guide Hornblower through the pain. Bush would have steadied him with a word, consoled him with a hand, and strengthened him with his presence. Hornblower lifted his right forearm, his only unrestrained extremity, and clutched desperately at empty air where he felt Bush's hand should be. His friend's hand _should be there, dammit_! His hand made contact with something solid, and he clenched his fist around it tightly. But it was fabric, not flesh. Hard wool, from a jacket. Mound's jacket. Hornblower would have sobbed then, and was saved the embarrassment only by a sudden diminishment of pain. The tongs were no longer digging into his flesh. It was over. He was still clutching Mound's lapel, and he mentally debated whether it was providing him any comfort whatsoever. Surely what little physical succor it granted was more than counterbalanced by the crushing disappointment it inspired as a continual reminder that Bush was not by his side? He loosened his grip and let his hand fall to the floor.

Then just as suddenly as the pain had seemed to end, there came a sharp stab at his arm—less painful than the previous operation, but still a brief agony in and of itself. And then another. Stitches. Hornblower was surprised to find himself in possession of enough wits to infer the cause of this new pain. His cries had been reduced to a low half grunt, half whimper in the back of his nose and throat, and his head felt so light that he really thought he must be on the verge of passing out. No doubt from blood loss, rather than the pain. There were more pricks of the needle, and Hornblower wanted to scream but did not have the strength. It was not until the last needle prick had punctured his skin that his mind wandered into unconsciousness. As he drifted off Hornblower found it perversely amusing that his body should turn out to be just as contrary as his mind.

Hornblower's memory of the rest of that dreadful evening was foggy. He vaguely recalled being shaken awake by Wychwood to attend to His Royal Highness, who visited their jail of a room some two hours after the surgery. Hornblower had apparently been functional enough to translate the rapid French to his officers and to explain his role in the night's unfortunate turn, but he could not now recall a word that had been spoken. Evidently he spoke well, for Alexander had believed that he and his officers were innocent of complicity in the assassination attempt and he released them from their confinement. He also invited Hornblower to remain at Peterhof, so that his shoulder could be looked after, but Hornblower vehemently refused. He had no wish to be stuck in that thrice cursed palace, alone and miserable, with flea-bitten Russians hovering around him and probing his wound. He'd be damned before he let that notion carry through. He was sure Bush would have cursed the Tsar for the suggestion, royal status notwithstanding.

So Alexander had had two men carry Hornblower on a stretcher out to the carriages. The landaus were now fully closed to shield them from the chill night air, and it was a struggle to get Hornblower's weak body through one of their doors. The seats were not long enough for a man of Hornblower's height to lay prone comfortably, so he was forced to sit upright. But he lacked the strength to do even _that_ fully, so Mound sat beside him to prop him up whenever he found himself sliding down the cushions or drooping dangerously. The jouncing of the carriage was pure agony to Hornblower, and his respect for Bush, who had been forced to endure a much longer journey in France, grew with every painful lurch.

His relief upon reaching the docks and leaving the torturous carriage was such that he did not remember how he got into the pinnace that sailed them across the harbor. Likely it had taken an extreme effort by Mound. Hornblower had found himself seated in the sternsheets, rather than the forward cabin, and that was proof enough of the difficulty involved in moving him. The trip to the _Nonsuch_, while longer than the carriage ride, passes far more smoothly, and Hornblower was fair nodding off when they came astern of her. He half expected to hear Bush cursing from the deck at their appearance, but he supposed the ship could have no way of knowing what had happened ashore.

As soon as they were along side Hurst shouted up to the officer of the watch. "Deck there! Get a stretcher and rig it to the tackles! The Commodore has been shot!"

"Shot you say?" It was Lieutenant Clark who replied. Hornblower had not realized how much he had been looking forward to hearing Bush's reassuring voice until that moment. It was ridiculous for him to have thought Bush might be on deck. It must be near four in the morning, and Bush could hardly have been expected to await their return the entire night. And yet he _had_ expected to hear Bush answer their hail, and it was a crushing disappointment to hear Clark's tinny voice instead. He quite agreed with Hurst's tone, therefore, when the first lieutenant yelled angrily back "Yes, damn you! Get that stretcher rigged!"

Hornblower could hear the movement of feet over the deck, and the jingle of pulleys being looped in to the rigging. He knew very well the effort required to rig such a set-up. He had had to direct the very operation as a lieutenant back on the Renown, when Bush was being moved to the onshore Naval hospital after the uprising of their Spanish prisoners. His awareness of the time necessary to secure the slings to the stretcher ends, and the coordination required to keep the stretcher level as it was lifted, prompted him to protest.

"Just tie me to the damn bosun's chair!"

Clark was shouting orders to the deck hands, and Hurst was watching the result even as he brushed off Hornblower's demand. "I don't think that would be very comfortable, Sir, or safe. And this will only take a little longer. Please, Sir." Only at the end did he turn to meet the gaze of his Commodore, and Hornblower was mollified by the genuine concern he saw in Hurst's face. It was possibly only professional concern—fear of the reprimand he might receive should he further injure or discomfit the Commodore—but it was reassuring to know that Hurst's actions were guided by any concern at all. He allowed himself to relax slightly, his head drooping towards his chest, and his torso leaning further against Mound.

Mound had been quiet the duration of the short sail to the _Nonsuch,_ but when, at length, a stretcher was finally lowered over the side, he spoke softly. "Are you ready to get up, sir? Would you like us to lift you onto it?"

"No." Hornblower said unequivocally. Then he tightened his grip on Mound's far shoulder with his good right arm, and forced himself to his feet. He would have fallen if Mound hadn't stood with him, but Mound had the intelligence not to give comment. It was only three halting steps to reach the stretcher from the sternsheets, and once there he allowed Mound to lower him to the canvas slung frame. He did not object when Mound grabbed his legs to swing them fully up and on to the stretcher with the rest of him. Mound spread Hornblower's ruined jacket over Hornblower's torso, then yelled up to the deck to haul away.

It was interesting that even in such dire circumstances his officers had waited until he was in the air before any of them moved to mount the side of the _Nonsuch_. He, with the highest rank, was to be first aboard, and it was a testament to the routine of naval protocol that these men had not even considered boarding until he was seen to. Brown was waiting for him on the deck, with two other seamen who grabbed the ends of the stretcher when it came within reach to ensure he wasn't unduly jostled as he was lowered to the hard planking. They quickly unhooked the slings from the stretcher, and almost faster than he could process, Hornblower was aloft again.

"Where are we going?" He rasped in confused annoyance.

"To the surgery." Brown's voice held no reproach, but Hornblower sensed that Brown thought the answer to be obvious.

"I've already seen a surgeon, damn you. Take me to my cabin."

"But Sir-"

"One surgery was quite enough for tonight, Brown. I am going to my cabin, and if you do not help me then I will do so myself!" With that he turned on to his right side and attempted to swing his legs over the edge of the stretcher. It was a futile attempt—he had not the strength to even position himself properly to get off the damn stretcher, let alone dismount it, but his theatrics were enough to force Brown's obedience. The stretcher bearers had halted during this exchange, and now did their best merely to keep it steady. They couldn't take the stretcher to his room, of course. The narrowness of the stairs and the passageway, even his cabin door, would make such an endeavor impossible. He knew this, and Brown knew this. They would have to walk.

"Aye-aye, Sir." Brown said worriedly, as he moved to Hornblower's side. "It's your left side that's bad, Sir?" Of course Brown wouldn't know where he'd been shot, but the sling Summer's had rigged from his large shirt was indication enough as to the location of his wound. He grunted in response and threw his jacket, which had still rested atop him, off the stretcher and out of the way. Then he wrapped his right arm across Brown's strong shoulders as his coxswain worked his own arms around Hornblower's waist. Brown hesitated for a moment, seemingly debating whether to slip his other arm under Hornblower's knees and lift him bodily. But Hornblower caught the look, "I can walk, damn you." His words sounded hollow, as he knew them to be—the fatigue stealing all the bite from his words.

But Brown dutifully replied "Aye-aye, Sir," and then with seemingly no effort at all, he lifted, and Hornblower was standing on the deck. The transition from horizontal to vertical made him dizzy, the insufficient blood in his body struggling to move to his head. He clung to Brown, waiting for the dizziness to abate. Then he grunted to indicate his readiness. It took all his concentration to keep his legs moving, one in front of the other, but he fancied he was supporting most of his own weight after a few steps. His concentration was such, however, that it could not be said who was more surprised when he came face to face with Bush halfway down the stairs. Bush very nearly bolled them over in his haste to get on deck, and it was only his sailor's reflexes that checked his forward motion in the nick of time. His coat was only half buttoned, and his hat was crumpled under one arm. He blinked several times at Hornblower, his eyes disbelieving, then collected himself, and managed a surprised, "Sir!" Hornblower, similarly surprised, could do nothing more than utter a terse, "Bush."

But at this naming Bush seemed to collect himself. He backed down the stairs in front of them, horrified that he'd caused Hornblower any discomfort. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry. Are you well, sir? Can I help? Is it a _bad_ wound? I was only just informed. If I'd known . . ." Bush was rambling in his worry, and if Hornblower had had any energy to spare he might have laughed. As it was he was breathing quite hard by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, where Bush stood, watching him, his eyes assessing, his frenzied words finally running out. He opened Hornblower's cabin door for Brown and cleared the way to the bed, clearly anxious to help in any way he could. Hornblower could not think in his current state, however. His blood was rushing in waves to his head, and he was dizzy. He thought he heard Brown tell Bush that Mr. Hurst was on deck and ready to report, and he thought he heard the tell-tale sound of Bush's wooden leg thumping out of the room, but they were muted observations. It took several minutes for him to regain full awareness. Brown had carefully undone his sling and removed his clothes, and he was in the process of sponging the sweat and blood from Hornblower's body.

"Bush?" he questioned. He wanted—needed to see his friend. The part of him that had reached out in agony for a hand when they had dug into his shoulder only to clasp a jacket was still waiting for that hand to appear.

"He's on deck, Sir. Would you like me to fetch him?"

"No." He said. But his frown deepened, and he could not keep the melancholy from his countenance. Brown finished his bathing ministrations, then stood with purpose. "I'm going to fetch some warm water bottles for you, Sir. Is there anything else you need?" Hornblower shook his head ever so slightly, and Brown departed. Hornblower did not hear the low voices of Brown and Bush in conversation on the quarterdeck above, or the thumping of Bush's wooden foot on the stairs. He did not move when Brown returned, some time later, with the water bottles. He remained in the same position, miserable and self-pitying, in fact, until Brown left again, and a new voice issued from the the direction of his cabin door.

"Sir? Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" Hornblower's face turned toward the bulky frame standing just inside his cabin, his eyes alight with hope and Bush's name on his tongue.

"Bush?"

There was such wistful pain in that one word that Bush found himself stumping across the wooden floor to stand by Hornblower's side without conscious thought. "Sir, I—I am sorry I wasn't there. Is there nothing I can do for you now?" Bush held his hat under his left arm, his right arm twitching by his side in indication of his restlessness. His eyes took in Hornblower's pale, sweaty face and the red bandage just visible at the edge of the blanket Brown had pulled up to his shoulders. There were lines of strain around Hornblower's eyes and mouth that looked like permanent grooves, carved into his face by the pain of that single night.

Hornblower could see the sadness in Bush's eyes after this inspection, but his mind was selfishly occupied in fretting about his own needs. Hornblower was not the type of man who could ask for the comfort he needed and he wished Bush could telepathically divine his wishes instead. He could not ask Bush to hold his hand, could not ask Bush to tell him everything was going to be alright, could not ask him for a shoulder to cry on.

But then he remembered . . . Bush had not asked for those things either, so long ago in France. He had merely held out his hand and Hornblower had taken it.

Hornblower clumsily shifted his right arm, working it out of the blankets Brown had piled so generously atop him. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of strength to push through the wool that ensconced him, but at last his arm was free. He lifted it up toward Bush, hand open and questing, even as he turned his head away so that he would not have to witness his rejection.

But he shouldn't have worried. For Bush's hand was in his, as if Bush had been waiting for the opportunity. The palm was coarse and calloused within his own soft, long fingers, but Hornblower was not caressing that palm as Bush had when their roles were reversed. He was squeezing Bush's hand—so hard that he was sure it must hurt. All the agony and fear of the night was making it's way through his hand and to Bush, wave after wave after wave, through the tightening of his grip. A catharsis for a body that had too long contained its emotions. He half expected Bush to pull away from the crushing intensity of that clasp, but if Bush felt any discomfort he gave no indication. He was aware that he was crying, and he had to force himself to contain any sobs. He told himself that tears were a physical reaction that could not be helped, but sobs were a capitulation to emotional turmoil, and were therefore a weakness of will he could not bring himself to display even to Bush.

Slowly, as the burden of his wound and his terror ebbed, his grip loosened so that his hand lay almost in repose under the steady weight of Bush's rougher hand. It was then that Bush shifted. "If you'll let me grab a chair, Sir, I can . . ." He didn't finish the sentence. Of course. Bush had been standing for the duration of Hornblower's outpouring, and if he were to remain longer of course he would require a chair.

Hornblower felt his hand released for a moment and heard the distinct sound of Bush's wooden leg moving across the cabin. Then that hand was back in his, as if it had never left. It was remarkable, the power that simple hand had over him. Amazing how the weight of it could give him so much comfort and reassurance, when in truth it was nothing more than a gnarled hand. It was as if by that contact Hornblower was transported to the small, rainy island on the Loire River where they'd huddled together in the cold more than a year ago. It had been a miserable, rainy night, and they'd had too few blankets for anyone to feel comfortable. But when he'd woken in the morning it was to find Bush's arm wrapped protectively over him, his snores a regular beat in his tone-deaf ears. It had been such a pleasure to wake to the knowledge that someone was watching over him; that someone cared whether he lived or died; that he was loved. It seemed now that Bush's hand in his was as good as Bush's arm around his shoulders.

And Bush, dear Bush, understood this need for comfort. Accepted it. Was grateful to be able to provide it.

When Brown checked in on his Commodore an hour later, Bush was still by Hornblower's bed. The captain's head was drooping onto his chest, and a muffled snort issued from his nose with every rise and fall of his stomach. His left arm drooped lifeless across his lap, but his right—his right arm rested on the Commodore's bed. And Brown could see, as he looked more closely, that Hornblower's face was serene. It was such a stark contrast to the twisted expression of muted agony that had clouded that face only an hour before that Brown would almost describe the Commodore as angelic in his sleep.

Brown looked once more at the two friends, their hands entwined, then quietly left the cabin, a broad smile on his face.


End file.
